


Normal People (Are Gay)

by PapaNoLivesMatter



Category: Normal People (2020) - Fandom, Normal People - Sally Rooney
Genre: M/M, Sligo living, Something like adoration, internalized and existential hatred, male Marianne but not quite but also yes with the same character and different scenarios
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapaNoLivesMatter/pseuds/PapaNoLivesMatter
Summary: They're two halves of the same whole; the raging tide and the serene moon watching the shore, the mouth and the voice of fire, the soma and psyche split into two shells which rile and spill into one another when they draw too close. Connell Waldron's never felt such a pull before, never felt a desire that draws him back like driftwood to the shore. Martin Sheridan's used to being an outcast, an island of one watching the sun rise and fall with only his own company to enjoy it. Yet even he can't ignore the bridge building between them. If only it weren't also so difficult between the two of them.Also feel free to read the notes in case you have more questions.Chapter 1, First Time: Connell and Martin share a moment that neither will be able to forget for better or for worse.Chapter 2, I Think About You Having Sex: Martin is chatty afterwards, not that Connell really seems to mind.Chapter 3, Stones: The sun, the sea and the feel of smoothed stones underfoot. What's to be afraid of out in the open?
Relationships: Connell Waldron/Martin Sheridan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. First Time

**Author's Note:**

> So while I loved the show and book and applaud the author for showcasing a romance with 1) deeply flawed people dealing with very real issues and 2) an actual understanding of how people are pressured by even the idea of social force, I honestly couldn't help but think "wow this is how you would portray gay fear respectably and without condescension." Obviously, Marianne is herself and while I don't think there's anything wrong with a heterosexual relationship I just wanted to try a hand at what it would be like if this story was pretty much the same...but gay. Happy Pride everyone?
> 
> Oh and if you like this or hate it or hate me and my existence [(fucking same) not really] or have any critiques of the work I'd love to hear them. I'm trying to improve how I write intimacy between characters and this is my first stab at it so if any of you have suggestions I'd love to read them. Or if you just want to tell me to stop posting because that gives me something to post on Twitter and I'd appreciate that too. Anyways, enjoy this vignette and maybe there will be more to be had.

His eyes are the color of cloud broken sky. The shade of blue right after a storm when the ground is still sopping wet and you can smell it in the air and they keep swirling, swirling swirling around the room. He comments on the posters, stresses that he doesn’t mind them as he charts off the names and smiling faces sporting trophies and accolades renowned the world over. Connell realizes that he’s cataloging it, storing each part and parcel bit of information away until he can call it back later. Martin does it a lot, its perhaps why he’s so quick on the draw when he gets heckled for the length of his hair or the book of sketches he toils away at when he’s decided there’s nothing left to gain from class.

“Do you like them?” Connell asks. It isn’t a real question, but the silence has gone on for a bit too long now and he doesn’t want to be caught staring into those blue eyes. Be a man, take the first move. That sort of thing. He watches those eyes blink once, twice, a hand raising to push a lock of curly dark hair over an ear as soft as mushroom caps before receiving a “I don’t really watch football but...they’re fine.”

Fine. Fine like Connell who’s still in another seat, who’s leaned back with his arms firmly crossed before his chest and a single hand running over his mouth. Martin sits opposite him on Connell’s bed, sheets still under him and tucked as precisely as his mam drilled into his head. Martin seems odd there, a piece of the sky and cloud and the great ocean which turns and churns and shoots up spray that crashes against the rocky outcroppings of a beach that no one goes to at the best of times for that very reason. Is that what he’s doing here? Sitting on the beach, in his little fold up chair watching the waves ebb and flow as they had done and would continue to do without Connell ever being there to watch? Would he dip his toe in the water now, feel it overtake him in waves and smooth the edges until it was one of the few perfect stones he used to pick up as a child?

“You seem in your head.” It’s not a question, Martin doesn’t ask questions and there’s no point when he already knows the answer. Connell opens his mouth to speak, feels the full weight of those eyes on him like the first break of chilled tide in the morning and shuts it again. He runs a hand across his face, wiping away something that’s not there to cover the nerves that most never see. He can’t hide from those eyes, but he doesn’t want to. Not right now, not when they aren’t cruel, and Connell can make out the faint outline of his own face in those pupils. He’s staring again so he opens his mouth to say, “And you’re never in yours?”

“You’ve seen me give gaff to your boys, but you don’t know how long I spend coming up with them.” There’s a smile there, faint across the crest of Martin’s cupid’s bow and the dip of his philtrum. Connell’s known those words for what, four days now? Martin told him, traced each feature on that day the larger man came over to feed that yearning and was overjoyed to see Martin’s own. The slighter man, with eyes that shown bright in the faint light and his curly hair blown flustered around his face had lifted a finger, so gingerly, so gently and followed the path of Connell’s top lip. “Cupid’s bow and the philtrum where he knocks his arrow,” and then a laugh like it was the greatest thing Martin had ever said which Connell wanted to agree with then and there. Connell’s staring again, Martin’s waiting for an answer even with the grin cut regally across his face.

“I just don’t always say what’s on my mind.” is his gruff response, present paradox excluded.

“You never say what’s on your mind.” It’s not a chastisement, nor a retort. Martin can lash with words as fast as Connell can deliver a ball into a goal and it extends even when there’s no real conflict. Flow. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that I just-I just always see you standing there with your mouth pressed in a line.” Ebb. “Can you come closer?” Flow.

Connell shrugs, why shouldn’t he? The tide breaks against the shore and this time he comes forth to meet it. He shouldn’t feel a stranger on his own bed but sitting next to Martin feels as if he’s violating his own personal space. It’s stupid and he chuckles right when Martin leans forward to press a kiss against his lips. 

“What?” Ebb. The slighter man moves back, there’s a wonderful blush painting across his features and his eyes are further away though no less bright for it.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Come here.” Those bright eyes return to his own, red lips quirking into something approaching a grin as he leans back in. Flow. Their lips press against one another, featherlight as if it’s the first time they’ve done this. It’s not, its retracing old ground with the promise that there will be more this time. So much more that the thought coils in Connell’s gut and before he knows it, he’s leaning into Martin’s space. The other man doesn’t protest, he leans back against the sheets of Connell’s bed, mouth open to take in his tongue, his breath and his adoration as their limbs coil together. Connell feels arms slip behind his back, feels them press against the expanse of his shoulders and feels Martin’s shiver like a crack of lightning when one of Connell’s hands lands near Martin’s head and the other curls around the back of the slighter man’s neck to get a better grip. They stay that way for a time. They ebb and flow against one another, hands slipping away beneath shirts and Connell delights in the smoothness of Martin’s skin while the latter is utterly entranced by the musculature that makes up the former’s back.

“Can we take our clothes off now?” Its whispered into his ear and it runs like electricity straight down Connell’s spine. He feels his erection pressed against Martin’s thigh, wonders briefly if he’s leaking into his boxers and offers a shaky yeah before lifting his bulk off the other man to remove his shirt. Its fast and messy, Martin undoes the button of his own shirt, gets one just near the bottom stuck and rips it in eagerness. His jeans go next, stubborn things that finally slide off and fall into a crumpled heap beneath Connell’s bed while the larger man loses his own pants and boxers. Connell takes a moment to admire the pale skin, unmarred and lacking the curves and dips he’s used to. It’s not bad, in fact the linings of his stomach and chest is nice even better beneath his hand when he reaches out wordlessly to flatten a palm against the expanse. He can feel Martin’s heartbeat, fast and eager, with each breath felt in the rise and fall through the pulse point of his fingers before Martin leans in again and their lips crash together eagerly. Pressed against each other now there’s nothing to hide. Connell’s still sitting upright from when he removed his clothing and Martin straddles his waist so he’s half on top of him. Their lengths are pressed between them, hard against one another and the sensation is new to Connell it makes him want more, to see how far this could possibly go.

“Do you have any condoms?” The question delivered breathily into the crook of his shoulder is almost inaudible. He considers for a moment, wondering what those words mean and what stringing them together means. It’s hard to figure out with a handful of Martin’s soft hair curling around his fingers but he pieces it together quickly enough with a nod and a “Yeah-yeah just let me get them.”

“Do we-do I. How do we?” the questions fall like plates from his lips, they clatter to the floor and he worries if he’s broken them. He doesn’t, his room is carpeted after all and those pretty eyes turn to them with a question of their own. “I can do it myself unless you’d like to?”

Now that is a fine question, blunt as all things with Martin are but delivered like sea salt spray that excites as it chills. Would he want to? Martin doesn’t wait and roots through the pockets of his jeans for a little clear vial. He’s prepared, another thing catalogued away in that deep mind of his for a time he needs it most which is now. He pops the cap open while Connell breaks the wrapper of the condom. A dollop makes it out onto Martin’s long fingers before Connell stops him. “Let me” he says simply, and Martin wordlessly nods. The vial changes hands, the condom, having slipped onto Connell’s cock somehow along the way. And a generous amount of lubricant makes its way across his fingers as Martin leans back with his head against the pillow.

“Do I just-” Martin grabs Connell’s hand, the slickened one and parts a single finger from the fan of his fingers before letting it slide over his body. It crosses his chest, his stomach down over the dark hairs that are as curly as the ones atop his head before Martin’s own cock and deeper past the cleft of his ass to the warmth that parts after a firm assertion. Flow. He’s warm inside around Connell’s finger and the larger man wants to ask something stupid like “does it hurt” before Martin sighs contently and nods to show him, he can move his hand on his own now. It’s not so different than it is with girls, a bit tighter maybe and he’s careful to make sure his fingers are properly lubed but he falls into a familiar rhythm all the same. He pumps in and out, adding another finger which makes Martin gasp and bite his knuckles while he leans back and simply is. In and out, ebb and flow while Connell reaches deeper inside the other man. He crosses his fingers, drinks in the other gasp and the next one when his knuckles disappear inside the other and Martin’s back arches off the bed and he lets out a throaty “There, right there!”

“Do you want me to-”

“Fuck me already you bastard!” and with that Connell thrusts inside, careful to supply another generous portion of lube onto his cock before going in completely. Martin arches his back again while Connell leans forward to hover over him. He sets his pace, ebb and flow inside Martin while the latter curls first his arms then his legs around Connell’s bulk. Harder and faster the rise and fall of the tide crashing over Connell, through Connell into Martin who’s every breath and moan and sigh are hot and heavy in Connell’s ear. He can feel Martin’s length pressed hard against his stomach, slotted between his muscles. They’re slotted perfectly now, Martin tight around Connell’s cock and their bodies two pieces of a puzzle made into glorious completion. Connell’s stomach coils tight with heat and he presses harder drawing an actual shout from the shorter man who’s babbling mindlessly now into Connell’s ear. Sweet, heavy nothings praising the beautiful broadness of Connell’s shoulders, of the strength of his arms where one is snaked tight across Martin’s back and of course the glory of his cock which reaches deep inside Martin and extracts those lovely noises.

It’s too much. The tide rises and the tide retreats, ebb and flow crashing through them both while some deeper tide rises higher and higher inside Connell and he feels like he will well and truly lose himself when it finally crashes down. He feels it in the tightening of his balls, in the heavy breathing that’s threatening to drown out the pretty desperate sounds Martin’s making while the latter’s fingernails dig almost painfully into the expanse of the former’s shoulders. 

He heaves one great thrust into Martin, loses himself as the wave splashes clear over him and he almost collapses onto the younger man but has the will left to ride it out in a series of thrusts deep enough into Martin where the younger man loses himself. He catches his breath and feels one of Martin’s own hands snake away from his shoulder to between the two of them. His feels the back of his hand against his stomach and notes the pattern as Martin finally loses himself to his own orgasm. They stay like that, sweaty and on top of one another as they breath heavily into one another and all the world outside the confines of that one room can be well underwater at that point for however much any of them cares.

Eventually, Connell pulls out, careful not to hurt the other before throwing the condom into the trash. He’s pulled back by Martin who rests his head against Connell’s sternum. Their breath’s steadying like a tide returning to normal after a great and mighty storm.

“I mean what I said,” Martin mutters into Connell’s chest.

“Which part?” Connell asks with just enough strength to keep his eyes from drifting shut just yet.

“I absolutely love how broad you are,” Martin replies, and Connell pulls the slighter man closer. Their smiles mirrored though neither is awake enough to note it before sleep pulls them both under.


	2. I Think About You Having Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's chatty afterward, Connell doesn't exactly mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone here's a shorter installment while I'm meshing out how I think they work together. I think I'm getting closer to Marianne's internalized issues as well as reflecting Connell's own without a huge dramatic diatribe about how they can't be who they want without S O C I E T Y dragging them down. Anyways if you enjoyed, have any critiques or just want to overshare your personal thoughts on the comment section of a writing quora, feel free to share.

“Do you remember that football game the other day?” The question is as innocuous as it is intrusive. Like a beam of sunlight reflecting off the water right into Connell’s eye. He doesn’t mind, not when Martin is pressed against his side, curls an unruly halo of chestnut brown about his face and his cheeks still flushed with life. He makes a pretty sight and Connell’s hands moves of its own accord to lock a curl between his fingers. It runs through easily like water, like Martin isn’t actually there but that can’t be true because he’s warm and breathing and comforting against Connell’s side. Well that and Connell’s imagination isn’t good enough for that kind of wank.

“Yeah I think I remember the one.” He wants to turn on his side and see Martin, take in every detail of the rich sunset along his face that’s made its way through the window.

“I was watching you and I just thought you looked beautiful.” The admission is sweet in its own way. Connell’s never been called beautiful. Handsome, yes by his mam and Rachel and well that’s about it but he’s never been called beautiful. He’s not one for empty compliments, lips usually pressed close as Martin always likes to point out but coming from the slighter man who can so casually tell you how he’d like to be fucked in public as he can comment on the weather it makes the comment something different. It means Martin’s not lying. What’s the point with his spend drying across each other’s chests and the condom thrown...somewhere near the trashcan and would need discreet removal before he takes his leave. It also makes the words flattering, like he’s more than a good lay which could just be Martin’s way of saying such a thing.

“The whole time I was thinking how I’d like to watch you have sex,” the words are almost a whisper at the end of the sentence, like they sting coming out and when Connell shifts to his side catch the other’s eyes Martin’s shy all of the sudden. Connell cups the other’s cheek, nudging the other to look him in the eye. Perhaps it’s the afterglow of sex, perhaps it’s the knowledge that this all is so new and so wonderful, and that Martin’s kisses can take his breath away but he doesn’t want this to end just yet. Whatever it is.

“You mean like in a film?” He’s heard about it of course. Seen the lads pass around recently acquired photos that were never meant to be shared with anyone but the receiver and the sender. 

“No, I mean-” the inhale that comes through Martin isn’t quite a sigh but it steadies him all the same, gives him time to look Connell in the eye again. “Not even with me. Just to see you fuck even if its other people. I had trouble thinking of anything else.” 

“You mean with other men?” his curiosity is aroused. He knew in the pit of his stomach that he’d have to ask himself these things sometimes. What it all meant, why he loved tracing the lines of Martin’s face, the feel of those lips against his, along his neck, around his cock. It’s scary, although he won’t admit it but he can’t quite put a finger on why. Not when those blues hold his own eyes with such intensity.

“Or women. I know Rachel still has a flame for you. I just wondered what it would be like: you flush against her, against a wall. Her skirts would be drawn up above her waist and her underwear hanging from an ankle while your own pants are down on the floor. I thought about you fucking her in your football uniform, maybe after practice, watching you from behind while you thrust into her cunt, saw her claw into your back and watched both your knees tremble and shake when you came in her. I-” the light has gone from Martin’s eyes, something dangerously close to shame creeping from the pupils, “I’m sorry that was weird. I’m weird, aren’t I.”

The slighter man shifts his weight away, a pale leg lifting out from under the covers to retreat away from here, from the room and from Connell who’s still digesting the words himself. He reaches out in time though; catches Martin’s wrist and gives it a squeeze he hopes is reassuring before pulling the other man back to him until they’re laying with Martin’s head against Connell’s sternum. It feels natural by now, like they’re always meant to be this way. “I don’t think you’re weird.” is all he says.

It works enough to draw a laugh from Martin who looks up into Connell’s eyes with that wonderful light returned to them. “Then I say you’re weird instead, Connell Waldron.”

“Maybe we can be weird together then?” it drifts out awkwardly through a crooked grin that’s mirrored in Martin’s own. The question and everything it means can wait until later, right now there’s just the two of them and the whole rest of the world is an entirely far off concept.


	3. Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun, the sea and the smoothed stones underfoot. What's there to be afraid of when its just the two of them aside from the ghosts of days past?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I made another chapter. This one kind of got away from me and while I feel like I've done better, I also think I'm getting how the two of them act in a vacuum down. Also, this is neither here nor there but I'm honestly kind of amazed how its June and there's literally nothing devoted to the idea of pride month where I am. I mean it makes sense as our last...political debacle sported a primary who's mission statement was pushing out the Nazis, the communists and the gays which was as hilarious as it was sad. Anyways, anyways, I hope you guys enjoy or hate it if that's what you need right now in your life and if you have any comments or anything that you want to add, feel free.

The beaches outside of Sligo aren’t much to write home about in all honesty. They’re thin strips of land, buffeted by waves that rise and fall and morph the land into crescents renowned for being difficult to navigate despite historical aims to raise piers and ports. They are also curiously lonely despite the serenity that one feels when the waves crash and spray water as gentle as a mother’s kiss upon their face. It makes Connell remember other times long ago when he was a kid and the waves would rise so high, he was afraid they might pull him under. They never did, of course, else he wouldn’t be here shoulder to chin with Martin who’s peering out into the blue foaming waves with something akin to envy. 

It had been Martin’s idea. He’d said, after wiping Connell’s cum from the side of his chin, that he’d never had a chance to visit the beaches. He wanted to sketch them, to take in the details and make something more of it than a passing afternoon and so Connell had offered to take him. It made something flash in Martin’s eyes. Something like surprise and gratitude that had cooled and crystalized into contemplation not that they stood right before the dip where the actual shore sat just ahead.

“It’s peaceful here,” Martin muttered into Connell’s ear. The taller of the two was a hundred miles away, tethered by the now familiar feeling of Martin pressed into his side but he still managed a wordless nod before slinking an arm around the other and pulling him in closer. The waves are peaceful like a song that’s reserved to play just for the two of them that reaches deep into the very seats of their souls. It reminds him of other things besides the high waves and the sound of seagulls that have been chased away with the greater city growing to scare away even the most stubborn of birds. It reminds him of his da and the blurry edges and lines which are all he has left of him. Now where did that all come from?

Martin had slipped away from Connell while the latter was musing. He’d come prepared, blanket and all already being lain out across the sandy soil and smoothed out into perfect seating. He patted the spot next to him, a grin spreading across his face when Connell obliged and sat down next to him. Martin was already digging in his bag again and found his sketchbook and pencils before worming back next to Connell. The larger man would have liked to ask what the other was planning to draw. If it were going to be a determined recreation or if this while project was going to take a trip down the more esoteric pathways with sidewinding tides and clouds heavier than stones. The few renditions Connell had glimpsed from Martin’s other portfolios were a delightful range that often made little sense to anyone aside from their creator. 

“Relax a minute,” Martin muttered and nudged Connell with his shoulder. The words caught him by surprise before he considered his own hunched over posture. He acquiesced with a sigh, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms before leaning back and unfolding his legs. This was a happy place, once. His da had taken him here, to this very slice of shore and hill where the sand poked out between stubborn rows of grass and the tide churned up smooth stones that Connell used to collect and feel between his own fingers. Once he’d been unable to even hold them in both hands and now the biggest might be able to stretch past his palm. Would he do that with his own kids? He wasn’t much of a sea farer, never could quite stand being on a boat the few times someone wanted to take an adventure further out at sea. He liked to believe he was simply an earth dweller: all stone and bone and wood that grew high overhead and fitted firmly in the earth. The sea was a difficult thing in comparison. It was always churning and turning and making new things from the old even as its untold depths held secrets no one could quite glimpse. Connell wonders what it would be like to bring his own child here, a nice stout lad with his proud nose and darker eyes. He’d love to raise a happy little child with smiles as sweet as sugar and curls coiled like his other dad’s. 

“Perfect” Martin sighed contently as he rested his head in Connell’s lap. The curly haired man had relaxed himself, laying perpendicular to Connell with his knees drawn up to brace his sketch pad while still being able to look up into the other man’s face. Connell chuckled before sliding a hand into the other’s hair. It was, as always, easy to run through. Not a tangle or imperfection passed through his fingers as he flattened his palm against the other’s scalp. Martin had started to wear it down more, even at school where it was usually bound and kept back in a bun that earned him snickers that were silenced with harsh words that just straddled the line of too far.

“Are you going to share this one?” Connell asks, nodding to the canvas which is already sporting a few cursory traces, some guidelines perhaps or maybe reference lines. He’d never been very good at the whole drawing thing anyways, so it was a mystery of its own.

“If it turns out well, I’d be more than happy to have you eyeball it,” is the reply, complimented with a quick wink that Connell notes from the corner of his eye. His full gaze is still on the waters and its tireless dance.

“I used to come here a lot, you know,” the words come unbidden but easily. They’re just words, they shouldn’t feel so heavy, but they feel like a weight being parted with, dropped between them. “With my da.”

“You don’t bring him up that much.” Martin had, to his credit, tried to inflect his tone into something that’s not an accusation and not the toneless clap of a retort he’d used on the kinds of people that would mock his long-fingered hands that lacked callous nor blister.

“I don’t remember that much of him to bring up.” That’s not entirely untrue; he remembers the little things of course. He remembers the smell of aftershave, of hair darker than that of him and his mother which he had inherited along with his height, thankfully. Yet it was more than just that. He remembered the feeling of stubble against his cheek when his da would pick him up and hold him close, of the aftershave he’d use when they had something so utterly important to do at the time that Connell had long since forgotten the specifics of. He also remembered laughing a lot and yelling at night when his parents thought he was asleep. “I look more like him, I think.”

The pencil never stops its pacing across the paper. It’s a nice compliment to the thoughts running through Connell’s head. His fingers continue moving again in Martin’s hair, one hand lowering to trace the shell of his ear and drawing a chuckle from the artist. “Did he give you your nose?”

“What you mean like the trick where you pinch your thumb between your two fingers and make off like you’re Houdini? 

“No, you lug,” Martin attempts to chastise through a grin but its hard to keep the adoration out of the insult. “I mean this,” he says and raises a hand not at work on the paper to tap the very tip of Connell’s nose. 

The action catches him off guard for a moment and he looks down fully to see Martin staring back up at him with a glint that could very well be mischief running through his iris. It’s a look that Connell’s well used to in the afterglow, in the moments when the heat in their stomachs has coiled down into something more solid and there’s all the time in the world just between them. He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against the other’s mouth, a smile blooming on each other’s faces when they part. “Well you certainly got a good deal out of it, wouldn’t you say so, Con?”

That’s a new thing that Martin’s been pushing for. Pet names between the two of them. A secret like all of this here just for the two of them to enjoy. He’s not too big on the idea to be entirely honest but it makes Martin happy and that’s infinitely more enjoyable to be around than when Connell’s fucked up somehow by not saying the right thing. That fiasco at the ghost house comes to mind but hopefully that’s exactly where it will stay.

“I can sniff out a truffle in a bunch thanks to it,” he jokes before snuffling the side of the Martin’s face like a hog. That’s another thing he remembers from his father. That and sitting in the back of a car looking down at his shoes while his parents argued in the front seat.

“I’m serious. I like the way it fills your face.” Martin pauses to consider something, eyes cast down at his page and Connell’s own following in pursuit before the former’s hand rises to black his path with a quick tut. “I like your face. It-you’re calming to look at. Like, I know that no matter how shite my day might be, you’ll still be there like an anchor. Like you’re my anchor but that still means you can’t peak until I’m done.”

“I don’t imagine you’ll be getting that good a view of the ocean if you’re watching me the whole time,” Connell grumbles but acquiesced and returned his own gaze to the waters. He kept Martin’s non dominate hand in his own though, gives it a squeeze like his mother did the last time he saw his father.

“Don’t you worry about me, Nell,” Martin replies before returning pencil to paper with rapid strokes. Shading, maybe? The thing that makes it appear more there. “What else do you remember about your father?”

“He was big like me,” Connell began before shifting his legs to a new position, careful to keep Martin’s head propped up as securely as before, “liked football too, apparently, and we used to all go out to games. My family and I, I mean. He kept his hair short and he had a beard, I think. No, he definitely had to have had a beard. I think.” His memory was a funny thing, supplying pieces and scraps where a whole picture was unavailable, and the details couldn’t quite make the whole of it. “That’s about it I think.”

“Do you miss him?” 

“Do you miss yours?” The pencil stops then, the pad falling flat against Martin’s stomach as his eyes turn up into the sky and through Connell. Something flickered behind his eyes, something deep down there in the darks of his pupil where he kept things well hidden even when it was just the two of them. “I miss the idea of him. I miss what he should have been but what he was? No, I don’t miss that for a second and I hope he’s dead in a ditch somewhere.” 

Silence rolls in like a cloud after that. It hung in the air like a wet blanket holding them both down on the ground. Eventually, Martin turns back to his work and Connell took the time to admire an especially well worked sea stone which fits snuggly in his hand. Neither wanted to break the silence, to risk saying something that would threaten to darken the clouds on an otherwise sunny day when it was just the two of them and the sea crashing for their own enjoyment.

“And-done!” Martin declared and raised off Connell’s lap. The shorter man looked into Connell’s eyes, sketchbook held against his chest and a grin break across his face. “Want to see?”

“Oh, I’m allowed to see this one?

“You’re allowed to see all of them if you just ask but this one, I don’t want to fix before letting you see it. I think I made this one perfect.”

“And how’s that?” Connell inquires before turning himself bodily around so that they could face each other. “Don’t keep me in suspense here! I want to see how it stacks up to the original.”

Martin took his sweet time squirming over so that they were shoulder to shoulder once more before passing the illustration into Connell’s hands. The latter’s mouth opened with an “O” of surprise at what greeted him. It wasn’t the beach, not any real or imaginary. It was Connell. His face was lined perfectly against a deep sky, a smile stretching across his face as he stared away into the unknown. It was him as Martin saw him, with every line of his face put into painstaking detail and celebrated with the bold strokes of one that was well familiar with the subject.

“Do you like it?” Martin asks as a stray lock of hair is pulled behind an ear. It’s his nervous tick, another thing that Connell believes only he would notice in the other man.

“Is it egotistical to say that I do?” Connell asks before giving the other’s knee an appreciative squeeze.

“About as much as me saying it’s the best thing I’ve ever drawn.” They laugh together to the tide, to the seagulls that squawked further out at sea that weren’t brave enough to come to shore and at the memories that couldn’t reach them here in the present. Together.


End file.
